221B Falls No More
by calgarry
Summary: A series of oneshots following on from my story 'Another Holmes For the Fall'. Not in order. Reading that first is recommended, but not imperative to understand this one. Featuring the one and only Charlene Holmes, who is both Sherlock's twin sister and John's wife. Mostly in order.
1. Greetings

Sherlock stood shakily upright in the kitchen, a steadying hand on the table. His head was tipped backwards, and he dabbed at his bloody nose with a tissue.

Downstairs, the front door slammed loudly shut. He could practically hear John storming down the street away from 221B.

"I don't understand," Sherlock told Charlene thickly. "I apologised, isn't that what I was supposed to do?"

She shook her head at him, leaning against the sink. "You really don't know anything about human nature, do you?"

"Nature…no," he told her. "Human…no."

"Well, I'd better teach you then," she said lightly.

Sherlock squinted at her sideways. "You're not…angry at me?" he asked curiously. "Annoyed?"

She smiled sadly. "Well, for one, that'd be hypocritical." Her brother smiled faintly. "If I am angry at you, it's only because of what you put John through."

Sherlock lowered his head to look at her. He thought about it, then nodded. "Fair enough."

"I'll talk him round. Don't worry."

"I'm not worried."

"No, you're not." Charlene paused, then she grinned. "Hello, Sherlock. Nice to meet you at last."

He carefully returned her smile. "Hello, Charlene."


	2. Approval

Sherlock sat in Mycroft's office opposite the large, imposing desk. He sat back in his chair, legs crossed, visibly relaxed.

Mycroft, by contrast, leaned forward on the desk, the picture of attention. "The terrorist alert has been raised to critical," he reminded Sherlock. "Are you making any headway?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, then stopped and squinted at his brother. "What are you doing that for?"

"Doing what?" Mycroft said pleasantly.

"Being nice," he said suspiciously.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"You've mellowed," Sherlock said with narrowed eyes.

"Maybe it's from having a caring sibling," Mycroft said pointedly.

"No. No, there's something else as well," Sherlock said, glancing around. He looked mystified, then his eyes widened. "You've met someone," he said accusatorily.

The eldest Holmes raised his eyebrows patiently, waiting for Sherlock to figure it out.

After a moment, he frowned, and said, "Graham. Isn't it?"

"Gregory," Mycroft corrected wearily. "His name is Gregory."

"Greg. That's what I said." He paused, considering the situation, then he nodded. "Now, about this terrorist alert…"

Mycroft allowed a small smile to play upon his lips, before getting back to the task at hand: the potential terrorist attack on London.


	3. Safety

_He gazes upon the oh-so-familiar scene that has haunted his dreams for years. The tall, grey building; the black figure, coat blowing gently in the wind._

_The phone call ends, his last hope disappearing with it. As the figure steps of the ledge, he screams in fear, frustration, anguish, just like he has done every time. However, now it is a different name that rips from his lips._

_"CHARLENE!"_

John jerks upright in bed, breathing heavily. "Charlene," he gasps, an echo of the dream.

Beside him, his wife stirs. "I'm here, John," she murmurs sleepily. "Go back to sleep."

His breathing slows, and he lies back down slowly. Charlene snuggles into his side, and he puts his arm around her protectively. They both know that they are safe in each other's arms.


	4. Honeymoon

John and Charlene are in France, on their honeymoon. Their romantic hotel room is on the River Seine, with beautiful views, and several landmarks within spitting distance. So, naturally, they are sitting in their hotel room, engrossed in their computer screens.

Of course, it's not their fault, as John is quick to point out in an email to Sherlock. It's the "blasted rain, pissing down like a bloke on a stag night."

After some idle browsing, Charlene happens upon John's blog. "John," she calls across the room, "have you seen this?"

He tears himself away from a video of the panda eating a chocolate bar, to look at her screen. "Why, that…" he mutters, scanning the 'blog post' that Sherlock has written. "The bastard!"

"Hey!" Charlene says in her brother's defence, albeit weakly.

"Sorry," John tells her, equally unconvincingly. "But I specifically told him not to touch my blog…how does he know my password, anyway?"

"You're transparent," Charlene tells him, taking her laptop back. "Your blog password has always been idontknowwhyimdoingthis, no spaces; and your computer password at the moment is marymorstan33. Should I be worried about that last one?"

John rolled his eyes. "Of course not, silly," he says, going in for a quick kiss. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to talk to your brother," he tells her, going over to his own laptop and opening his blog.

Charlene's mouth twitches at the sight of her husband hunched over his computer, mouth set, typing away furiously. After some thought, she decides to join in the fun, and logs on also.


	5. Plea

**Hello there. Thanks so much for reading this! Sorry to have to make this chapter not really a chapter, but the truth is, I'm fresh out of ideas for chapters. So, if anyone has any ideas for little things Charlene could do, sweet moments between her and John (or anyone else for that matter) I'd love to hear them, through either review or PM. Same goes for all my stories, I've got a bit of writer's block at the moment.**

**Thanks again for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!**

**-Calgarry**


	6. Identical

**A/N: This one wasn't supposed to be so long, I apologise. It got away from me.**

* * *

Sherlock stared into the bathroom mirror, carefully applying a fresh coat of lipstick.

Maybe I should back up a bit.

John, Sherlock, and Charlene were sitting in their living room on sunny Sunday afternoon, talking. Suddenly, Greg Lestrade appeared in the doorway of 221B, looking tired and worn. "I need your help. Please," he said, looking pleadingly from face to face.

John stood up. "What's wrong, mate?"

Greg looked away from him, eyes darting between John and Charlene. "Would you two mind being identical?"

Several minutes and a lot of explaining later, they realised that Greg needed a pair of identical twins urgently, for an undercover operation that evening, as one of the twins thy had been intending to use had come down with the flu. The plan involved one twin going through a security sensor without setting off any alarms, then switching with the other twin; who would be hidden in another part of the building, wearing surveillance equipment. They would switch back before leaving the building.

Sherlock and Charlene, of course, agreed immediately. It was John who pointed out the complication: "You're not identical. You're not even the same gender."

"Well," Greg said nervously, "obviously we have a make-up artist who can make you identical. We've agreed at the Yard that it'd be easier if you were both female. Will that be all right, Sherlock?"

"Of course," Sherlock nodded without hesitation.

"Right," Greg said, his voice gaining confidence. "Let's get started."

And thus, four hours after Greg arrived, Sherlock stared into the bathroom mirror, carefully applying a fresh coat of lipstick. He wasn't quite able to cover up the small scar on his lip, from when John had thrown him into the coffee table after he returned. However, he dismissed this as insignificant, something nobody would notice except for him.

Charlene was upstairs, fixing her wig so none of her auburn hair was visible. John, meanwhile, was in the living room, trying to wrap his head around the idea of Sherlock seeing in a skirt. He resolved to get a photo to laugh at, when he was feeling down.

A few minutes later, John saw Charlene standing in the kitchen. He crept up behind her silently, and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned, and he met her mouth with his, pulling her head down to his with a hand at the back of her neck, as usual.

However, this time she stiffened, and frowned at him. He pulled back with a questioning look. "What's up?"

Charlene leaned in towards him. "John," she murmured, "look at my mouth."

Confused, he did as she said, inspecting the familiar mouth. The bow shape, pulled into a slight smirk; the scar…wait.

His eyes widened, darting over the face in front of him. "Sherlock!" John exclaimed, scandalised. "You…why didn't you stop me?"

"I tried to." Sherlock was really laughing now. "Can't you even tell your own wife from her brother, John?"

"Shut up," he said, looking down at the floor, a fierce blush on his cheeks. He managed to bring himself to look up at Sherlock, resisting the urge to slap his best friend in the face. "You…you won't tell Charlene, will you?"

Sherlock merely raised a finger and pointed behind John. John froze, cringing, and turned around to see Charlene in the doorway. She was almost doubled over with laughter. "You saw, didn't you?"

She nodded, grinning widely. "Oh, for God's sake!" John said loudly. "I'm sorry I kissed Sherlock, okay!"

At that moment, Lestrade poked his head into the kitchen, them having been too busy laughing to hear him coming up the stairs. "Did I hear you right, John? You kissed Sherlock?"

John closed his eyes and let out a loud groan.


	7. Morning Tea

**A/N: Okay, so quite frankly I've begun to run out of ideas for this story, so I'm having a go at doing various scenes from series 3. Of anyone has any ideas, anything at all, I'd love to hear from you.**

**Also, I have a message for the person who is pretending to be Charlene on various websites. If you are reading this, you know who you are. While it's good that you liked Charlene enough to impersonate her, don't you think you could have asked before being someone else's OC online?**

**Anyway, back to the story.**

* * *

Sherlock plodded out of his bedroom, blue dressing gown hanging loosely off one shoulder. He walked into the kitchen in bare feet, noting the sound running of running water coming from the bathroom door as he passed. Someone was having a shower.

He reached the sink, and picked up the kettle with the intention of filling it with cold water. However, he heard a noise from the bathroom, and small giggle, which made him freeze. He stared at the kettle, then at the tap.

Making a sudden decision, Sherlock placed the kettle back in its place, instead turning the hot tap on with a vengeance. A moment passed, then a shriek came from the bathroom. He analysed it quickly: one person, male (although John could hit a good falsetto note). He grinned to himself and disappeared back into his bedroom, mission accomplished.

-o0o-

"Really Sherlock, you shouldn't do that," Mrs Hudson chided him gently as she placed the tea tray in front of him. "Even I could hear him this morning."

"I don't know what you mean," he said innocently.

"They are about to get married, you know," she reminded him. "It is allowed."

He shrugged, then pointed to the tea-tray as if he had just noticed it. "What are you doing?"

"Bringing you your morning tea, of course," Mrs Hudson said, poured milk into a china cup. "Where did you think it came from?"

"I thought John or Charlene made it." He shrugged, waving his hand in a manner that seemed to indicate he was above wondering about the origin of tea.

"They're too busy getting ready for work in the morning, silly!" She handed him the cup and sat down in John's chair, leaning forward expectantly. "Well? Are you excited?"

"For what?" He blew on his tea.

"The big day! It's tomorrow! John and Charlene are getting married!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Two people who currently live together are about to attend church, have a party, go on a short holiday, and then carry on living together. Nothing will change. I don't see anything exciting about that. Aren't there normally biscuits?" he added, frowning at the tray.

"I ran out. And marriage changes people, Sherlock, in a way you could never understand," Mrs Hudson said, with the air of one imparting great wisdom.

"As does lethal injection," He smiled pointedly at her, then took a sip of his tea. "I'm sure the shop on the corner is open," he suggested.

"My best friend Margaret, was my chief bridesmaid." Mrs Hudson's eyes glazed over, ready to tell a story. Sherlock noticed this and jumped up, shepherding his landlady towards the door. "Biscuits! Some of those nice chocolate ones would be nice."

Her voice floated back to him as she made her way down the stairs. "Not your housekeeper!"


End file.
